


There was love

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbrey wasn't the only one who expected them to get married.</p>
<p>Written for the got_exchange on LiveJournal</p>
            </blockquote>





	There was love

_Brandon_

The first time that he sees her, he’s riding in the Rills in an attempt to free himself from the dull confines of Barrowton, with its orderly streets and its staid wooden buildings. The land is rough, slightly wild, and nothing like Brandon’s ever seen before. As he carefully guides his mount through uneven terrain, steering clear of the gullies that give the region its name, he thinks on how isolated it is here, how open the spaces are, with nothing but land stretching from one horizon to the next, the only real sound the water chuckling against the rocks as it winds its way through the landscape. 

There’s a girl on a black horse, going far too fast, and at such a distance that he can’t tell whether she’s in distress or willingly urging the animal at such a breakneck pace. So he stops and watches as she cuts through the land like a streak, clinging to the horse’s neck, its footfalls and her cry mingling as she narrows the distance between them. For a moment, Brandon fears that she’s lost control of things and that they’re going to collide, but he sees, just as she passes with a hair’s-breadth between them, that she’s gripping the reins in seasoned hands, and her outburst comes with a broad smile. 

He stands there, watching her with an amused expression, reminded of his sister and her wild ways, remembering how she’d urge him on to some risky challenge, and then best him without seeming to expand any effort whatsoever, her eyes flashing at the sight of his rueful expression. Winterfell seems so far away now though, and before he can get caught up in nostalgia, he turns, nudging the horse back to civilization.

That evening, as they dine, he asks Lord Dustin about what he’s seen, mentioning it as an aside, not wanting to assign too much significance. Truth is, he’s annoyed with himself because he’s not been able to get the sight out of his head, the way that her head had been thrown back with abandon, her hair streaking behind him in a dark tangled mass, the breathless way she’d been screaming and laughing all at once, like some queer spirit drawn from a fairy story. Brandon’s had women, plenty of them, but his interests have always flashed, then faded quickly. This is rather a new thing altogether. 

“That would be old Ryswell’s daughter,” Dustin muses, tearing off a piece of breadcrust and nibbling on it, thinking. “The eldest is married now, to Roose Bolton, so you must have seen Barbrey.”

“Barbrey,” Brandon says, as though the name is nothing to him. “I hope that she made it back.”

Dustin smiles. “I wouldn’t trouble myself with it, my boy. After all, those Ryswells are all the same. Made for riding, and just as high blooded and flighty as those horses that they breed. I’m surprised that you haven’t encountered her before. If you ask me, both of those girls were given too free a hand but that is what comes of such a family. Can’t even agree on a sigil, so such things are to be expected.”

Brandon grins then, sharing a look at Willam, Lord Dustin’s son, who rolls his eyes at his father’s dismissal. It never fails to amuse him how these small lords loved to puff themselves up with self-importance over the most worthless matters. He lets it drop as the conversation turns to other things, but his mind wanders over the droning of his foster lord.

*

Dustin doesn’t let his distaste for the Ryswells and their quarrelsome nature spoil his intention to visit their holdfast a fortnight later. This season’s new foals have all come of age for purchase and Lord Rodrik, never allowing an opportunity to be wasted, has invited quite a few of the northern lords for a feast and an opportunity to view the new horseflesh. Brandon is naturally included, bundled up with the rest of the family for the brief ride west. When they arrive, divesting themselves of their heavy cloaks and bundlings, the celebration is already in progress, candles and torches flickering in the cold night air, orange and red garlands bedecking the pale grey stone of the Ryswell holdfast everywhere he looks. 

They wind a slow path through the crowds, jostled by merry-makers and servants carrying groaning trays laden with mead and hippocras, burdened with sweetmeats and other delicacies, making their way through the receiving line where Rodrik Ryswell presses their hands in turn, his sharp features lighting up at the sight of Brandon, son of his liege lord, in a way that they did not for old Lord Dustin and his son. Ryswell smiles at him, his mouth slightly obscured by his pointed beard, eyes glinting in the low light. 

“An honor to see you, my boy,” he says, nodding. “It is unfortunately that your father and family were not able to attend. Things must be busy at Winterfell this time of year, with the harvest.” There is a cast of disappointment to his face as he says this, but he soon conceals it. “My daughter, Lady Barbrey,” he says, leading Brandon’s hands to those of the girl standing next him. “The lady of the house now that her mother has passed on and her sister wed.”

It’s the girl he saw that day in the Rills, of course, only now her hair is tamed under a smart gold net, and her figure soberly clad in a still-stylish gown of red. But her expression is just as wild, just as sharp, and her cheeks just as flushed as she takes his hands in hers, pressing them slightly too long.

“Lord Stark,” she says in a low voice,” welcome.”

“Brandon,” he says, “Please. Lord Stark is my father.”

She grins, but he is swept away in the progress before he can say more, and she is busy greeting the next petitioner, one of the Cerwyn boys. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the evening but he catches her staring at him. Brandon can’t fault her, for he was doing the same.

* 

He approaches her the next day while her father is occupied, leading Lord Dustin and his train through the stables, the avaricious glow on the old man’s face strangely endearing. She is dressed in a smart riding costume, and is deep in conversation with another girl who has the same heavy raven hair.

“And to think that I haven’t seen you since you wed. We shall have to keep you here, sister. Let that pink lord of yours fend for himself.”

Barbrey’s laughter is too loud, a strange contrast with her companion’s restrained manner. But they are both smiling, and Brandon watches them from a distance until the other girl, Bethany, departs, heading toward the confines of the household, drawing a pale pink cloak around herself. He makes his way then, raising a hand in greeting.

“Lady Ryswell.”

“Lord _Brandon_. I remember you.” She smiles but there is something a bit off about it, something a bit too mannered, and for a moment he is reminded of her father’s expression the evening past. But he pays it no mind. “I was just about to go riding. It’s far too close here, what with half the north milling about with gold burning their palms. Would you join me?”

She’s forward. Brandon quite likes that, and takes her up on the offer, even spurring her to an impromptu race. Barbrey’s the sort of girl, it seems, who doesn’t need much convincing towards reckless behavior, and he’s not surprised when she outstrips him, laughing as he watches her mare streak past his mount, the horse’s snorts and her laughter echoing all around him. When he catches up with her, she’s giving the animal a rest, tethering her to a low-hanging tree branch, and lolling on the soft grass that grows around its roots.

She shades her eyes, looking up at him as he dismounts and does the same with his horse. 

“You’d better not have left me win, Brandon Stark. I’m not much for chivalry. Either that or you’re a graceful loser.” 

He shakes his head. “I’ve plenty of practice being left in the dust. My sister Lyanna is just as much of a horsewoman as you.” And she is a bit like Lyanna, he thinks again, with her easy smiles and her daring, but there is something sharper, something almost too intense in Barbrey’s grand gestures and direct glances. He likes it, finds it terribly refreshing from the courtly games that he’s been groomed to play with lords’ daughters, and remembers what Dustin had said about Rodrik Ryswell and his lack of control when it came to his girls. He likes that as well. Of course, it’s only to his advantage. 

“A favor,” he says then, grinning rakishly. “A favor to the winner. What will you have?”

She smirks. “Do you think that there is anything in your possession that I might want, Lord Stark?” She fidgets with the edge of his cloak, trimmed with grey wolf’s fur. “After all, I am well-provided for.”

He stays her hand with his, still-gloved, encircling her wrist with his fingers, squeezing it. “I can think of something that might please you.”

“What is that, then? Winterfell?” She giggles, and it’s strangely endearing. “What would I do with a castle in the snow when I have this?” Her free hand sweeps out, tracing the horizon. 

He bends closer and they fall against the trunk of the tree, Brandon’s lips brushing hers, then meeting them hungrily. Barbrey does not struggle, but she does not quite submit. She reciprocates, shaking herself free of his grip, pulling him nearer to her as her arms go round his neck, fingers snarling in his wind-blown hair. She does not protest when he reaches under her skirts, tossing his gloves aside, and her fingers are just as eager to undo him, working at the laces on his breeches, drawing him out, opening her thighs taut with muscles from years of riding. 

Brandon finds it sweet, not like the tavern girls, not quite like the other girls he’s had who fall on their backs with mouths open in shock, lying there like dolls as he has his way with them. Barbrey bucks her hips against his, pulls strands of hair as he thrusts against her, almost rides him as though he were something from the stables. And her cries mingle with his moans of pleasure as he finishes, pulling out and spending himself in his hand lest he bring another Snow into the world with this woman. 

Barbrey lies there with eyes closed, and her face has softened, the angles not so pronounced, her lip not quite so quirked as before. She is smiling as though she has encountered a great secret, a wonderful mystery that she is not likely to share with anyone. 

“Do you find that to your liking, Lady Barbrey?” he says softly. “Was this a worthy prize?”

“What do you think, Brandon Stark?” she breathes, hands lazily setting to rights her riding habit, neatening the folds of her skirt, pulling stockings to rights, smoothing the leaves from her hair. 

And he does the same, noticing with some astonishment that there is blood, blood from her maidenhead, and when she meets his eyes, they both grin.

*

He comes to the Rills again and again, wondering at times what they’re playing at, amazed that no one seems to break up these flushed, frantic dalliances, and pleasantly surprised that she seems to enjoy them as much as he does. They lie together in the countryside, with beds of leaves for their satin sheets and the long grass for their pillows. Riding is but an excuse to steal away, although he enjoys it for what it is, and comes to respect his companion for her horsemanship. She’s a risk-taker, that is certain, but it is with a firm hand and a clear eye. 

And one day, he knows that it’s more than just want. 

They recline against a tree, their clothing still half-undone, and Brandon toys with the sword that he’s just procured from Dustin’s armory, a flashy thing, more appropriate for a flashy Braavosi than a northern lordling, and as the last rays of the sun dance upon it, he teasingly lifts Barbrey’s tangled skirts, exposing bare thighs. 

“Sharp enough to shave a woman’s cunt,” he says, and instead of the blush that he’d almost expected, she laughs, a dry chuckle that becomes uproarious, and soon they’re both roaring. And it’s even better when she pulls it from his hands, casts it aside, and draws his hands between her legs. 

“There are better things for women’s cunts than swords,” she says with a smirk as the blade falls into the dirt. 

*

And one day, when he tells her of Catelyn Tully and the marriage arranged by two great lords, she merely stares at him, and bars the door.

 

_Barbrey_

When the raven arrives from Winterfell, she burns the letter without thinking. It doesn’t sting any longer, the pain having become somewhat of a constant companion, an old friend, a quiet pain in her chest that is easily swallowed. But Barbrey does not stir; she merely sits at her window and watches the land before her, willing herself to think on nothing, rather than contemplating what she sees as a two-fold failure. 

_I let myself love him. And I was not enough._

When Bethany, alarmed at how many of her letters have gone unanswered, calls at the Rills with her quiet airs, her thickly pregnant body wrapped tightly in furs to keep the babe, Barbrey admits her but will not break for her, will not confess to her sorrow. Acknowledging it, giving it a body, will only make it all real, will force her to face the fact that she has been left at home, cast aside. She does not like to admit having been wrong. But there is something more. Despite her sharp asides and wild pretenses, there has been something deeper than adolescent fumblings with Brandon Stark. 

There was love. 

And so she makes small talk about the child in her sister’s womb, the pony that she and Roose have procured for their heir, the pretense of her journey east. But Bethany is no fool, could be no fool, her life with Lord Bolton so dependent upon her ability to rely on subtlety, to observe detail, to find the small betrayals of another’s weakness. 

So she presses Barbrey’s hand between hers, gloved in wolfskin, a detail that is not lost on Barbrey, and she bends close in confidence.

“You must make your own happiness, sister, for no one else will do it for you.”

The words are gently said, with a sad smile, but they sting nonetheless, they cut like the sharpest knife.

“What do you know of loss?” Barbrey says coldly, and she watches in disappointment as her sister’s composure does not waver. “You who have everything? Married to the second-most powerful lord in the North, Father’s favorite, with a baby on the way and more to follow? What do you know of pain?”

Her sister does not respond. 

“I would have been Lady Stark. And you would have bent the knee to me.” The words are out before she can recall them, and they are crueler than she would have liked. 

“As I said, make your own happiness. It’s what I have done,” Bethany says with a shake of her head, hand lingering on the swell of her belly. 

When she leaves, Barbrey does not follow.

*

Bethany’s advice rings in her ears when her father shows her Willam Dustin’s letter, his proposal, just as stark and formal and reticent as the man himself. She feels no triumph over it, merely a curious resignation, and she thinks on the shy young man who she barely knows, and wonders if she could be made glad in a union with him. 

“It has already been announced,” Lord Rodrik says, his voice dry, “so you had best be pleased, daughter.” But there is a smile teasing the corners of his normally harsh mouth. “And be thankful that word of your conduct with that Stark whelp has not gone beyond the confines of the Rills.” He sighs. “A disappointment that. But Dustin is a good man, with a kind heart, and perhaps he will serve to temper your more choleric nature.”

“I am sorry, Father.”

Rodrik squeezes her hand, a gesture at odds with his usual harder nature. “As am I, child. I thought to see both of my daughters raised high…but sometimes I think that happiness may be preferential to rank. Perhaps it is for the best, after all.” 

It is no real consolation, and both of them know it.

Barbrey does not break until she reaches the stables, and weeps when she buries her face in her mare’s neck. When she emerges an hour later, her eyes are dry and her manner is calm when she asks the Maester for parchment and ink. She has decided to send the marriage announcements herself, and her hand is steady, her penmanship even and elegant as she writes the first, to their liege lord.

 

_Brandon_

She looks unsurprised when he comes to her for the last time that evening, and he says nothing as they stand before each other, bare-faced. 

“You to marry the Tully girl,” Barbrey whispers, but there is no hate on her features now, nothing but a resignation that sounds alarmingly adult. Alarmingly old. “And I to Barrowton.” She smiles then, coldly. “Such fates, Lord Stark, such bedfellows.”

Brandon tentatively touches her hair, smoothing back a tendril that has come loose from the hastily-made knot at the nape of her neck, and his movements become more deliberate as Barbrey bends to them, permitting his kiss, allowing his hands to encircle her waist and pull her close, saying nothing as he fumbles with her heavy skirts until his hands brush flesh. She shudders, pulling back, whispering in his ear. 

“Can we not find a better place, Brandon? After all, it is to be the last time, is it not?” 

He nods, resigned, and they steal inside the walls, thankful for the late hour and the absence of servants and retainers, the absence of fathers with watchful eyes, and when they fall to the bed in a tumble, her silence is more unnerving than his realization that he regrets this, that he wishes that this girl, despite her lower birth, will stand in the Godswood, will bear his children, will run his household. It surprises him, and although he knows that it is not love but nostalgia mixed with pleasure that causes his heart to race when her hands unlace his breeches, he still murmurs old endearments against her neck as he thrusts against her, and when they have parted, their bodies shaking, their breathing unsteady in those brief lingering moments after the act, he smoothes sweaty hair from her forehead, brushing his lips against it. 

“Good night, Brandon,” she says as he does, and although her face is unreadable, its lines hardened now, there is a desperation in her tone. “Goodbye, Brandon,” she whispers as he rises, dressing himself, unable to meet her eyes now. 

Barbrey does not cover herself. She lies abed, unashamed and utterly nude, her eyes trained on him as he pulls his cloak about himself, as he slips on his riding boots, and she watches him go without breaking, without begging for one moment more. 

And Brandon doesn’t look back when he begins the long, now seemingly weary, ride home.

 

_Epilogue_

Lord Rickard finds the letter torn open in his solar, the golden wax and the horse’s head seal making its sender obvious, and when he at last reads the message, he is not surprised. Rather, he is relieved in a queer way. 

“Have you seen my son?” he says in passing to the maester as he takes his leave of his rooms.

“Lord Brandon has gone riding, Lord Stark,” says Luwin, a sad smile on his face. He pauses, then adds. “He is but a boy, my Lord and boys have their passions.”

But Lord Stark does not listen. He goes to the window and watches for his heir, clutching the missive in his hands, twisting the fragile paper, watching as day turns to night, then night to morn, and allowing a smile to crease his stern expression when he finally catches sight of Brandon walking his lathered mount back to the stables, his clothing windblown, his head held high, stilting laughter calling across the yard to his squire.

He knows where his son has been, and knows that it has come to naught. 

“No longer a boy,” he sighs then, and closes the drapes.


End file.
